


An Old, Empty Revolver

by Inspector_Spinda



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Complete, Crime, Drama, Mystery, Organized Crime, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8415817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspector_Spinda/pseuds/Inspector_Spinda
Summary: An old Jigen original story I wrote





	1. Death of a Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more rewrites! I've finally finished the whole story from start to finish and will post it all over the following weeks as I start my next fic.

It all started with the old, empty revolver hidden in the drawer under the kitchen sink. The last object between my father and his, retrospectively, inevitable demise. At the time, I couldn't imagine what it'd been doing there, or that it even existed in the first place. I ducked into a closet, sheltering my sister under one arm, and watched the commotion through a crack in the door. I watched my father pull the trigger, once, twice, three times. But the barrel just spun uselessly. I watched as one, two, three bullets penetrated his chest. Even after the last gunshot fired, neither of us emerged from behind the closet door. We stayed there huddled together for hours, until the harsh glow of police flashlights brought us out.

"We have one adult male and two minors here, a boy and a girl," one of them reported into a radio. "The former seems to be deceased while the children appear to have sustained only minor injuries."

"Hi," a second voice whispered. A pretty young woman with red hair and a lightly freckled face knelt on the ground beside me. "My name's Rachel Johnson. I'm a detective," she said, gently.

"Daniel," I replied. It occurred to me she might have been mostly addressing my sister, but her patronizing tone still annoyed me. I was almost sixteen, after all. But I figured in situations like the one I was currently in, it was probably best to be polite.

"And she's Nicole," I added, pointing to my sister. Rachel smiled and took Nichole's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"There's nothing to worry about. You're safe now," she assured her, placing her other hand on my shoulder. "I'm going to find the person that did this. I promise." I looked passed her, squinting as I watched two men hoist out a long black bag.

The detective put her hand up against the frame of the door. She tried to make the gesture look natural, as if she was preparing to get up, but I could tell she was trying to block my view of the body. I turned away, letting out a low growl from deep in my throat. Nicole let out a whimper and dove towards the woman's shoulder, dripping tears onto the lapel of her coat. I watched her in silence, back leaning against the inside of the closet.

Rachel, along with several other officers, led us out of the ruins of our little apartment, past the dozens of empty bottles of liquor strewn across the living room floor, and onto the streets were a small crowd of neighbors had gathered. Some looked more horrified than others, but none seemed too surprised. Such events occurred far too frequently, and had were an excepted part of life in the Bronx.

As we waited alone in the back of the police car, a man with brown hair and a dark hat walked over to Rachel. He was wearing a suit underneath a long overcoat, and had his hands shoved stubbornly into his pockets.

"The father was killed with three shots from a semi-automatic," he reported in a whisper. "One to the kneecap, then the stomach and the chest." He probably didn't intend for me to hear, but I did anyways.

"Dan?" Nicole murmured.

"Um?"

"W-what was that guy doing in our house?" she asked. I turned my head to the window and watched Rachel get into the passenger seat in front of us, and the gelled man in the driver's seat next to her.

"I dunno," I sighed, though it wasn't too difficult to imagine. You didn't shoot someone three times to kill them. You did it to watch them suffer. "Let's just let the police figure that out, alright?"

The two detectives were silent the entire ride to the station, giving me time to stare out the window and wonder why this kind of thing couldn't have happened to someone who was rich. Someone who could afford to have life punch them in a face a few times. Life's only has good as you can afford for it to be, I guess. When I was younger I would imagine what it would be like to grow up and get fantastically rich, see the world and have no problems.

When we arrived at the station, the detectives lead us inside and up to the third floor. As soon the doors slid open, the clinging of typewriters and shuffling of papers filled the room. There was a dozen officers at desks and walking in and out of the room. Several of them looked up for a moment as we walked passed, but quickly went back to their work.

"You'll have to stay here for tonight," Rachel said. "There are a couple of beds in the back. Fortunately, they aren't as uncomfortable as they look." She looked at her partner. "Marty?"

Her partner ushered Nichole in a room at the end of the hall. Nichole started to follow him, but turned back as she realized Rachel was leading me in the opposite direction. She clung to my hand and shook her head when Marty tried to lead her away.

"Daniel won't be long," Rachel told her. "I just need to talk to him for a few minutes, ok?" She opened a steel door leading to a vacant room, safe for a pair of rickety chairs and a desk.

"It's ok," I assured her. "I'll see you in a bit." Nichole nodded, before letting go.

I entered the interrogation room and sat down on one of the chairs while Rachel took the second. There was a mirror which stretched along one wall and was too big to have any sort of purpose in the room. I glanced at it for moment before shifting my gaze forward. Looked like we were going to have an audience.

"Are you ok?" Rachel asked. I nodded. "I'm sorry. It must of have been a terrible thing to see."

"Don't be, it ain't your fault," I replied. "Besides, I didn't really see much." The detective nodded sympathetically, though I hadn't given her any reason to.

"Do you have an idea about who might want to hurt your father?" she asked slowly. I shrugged.

"No."

"Think harder," she urged. "I want to help you find his killer, but I can't without your help." I didn't reply. Instead by stomach did.

"I'll go get you something from downstairs," Rachel replied with a smile. "Do you have any allergies?" I shook my head. When she left the room, I sat quietly, alone, tapping my worn out shoes rhythmically against the concrete floor.

**...**

I shut the door of the interrogation room behind me, about the take the elevator downstairs when my partner turned the corner. Martin's dusty oak hair was combed neatly towards the back of his head. He'd been watching the interrogation through the one-way window around the corner. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed impatiently.

"You think it was one of _them_?" he asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" I replied, folding my arms and letting out a deep breath.

"What are you going to do?" I shook my head.

"I can't ignore it. Not this time. Not again," I muttered.

"The chief won't be happy to hear it." Martin sighed. He sat down on a bench stapled to the wall, slouching and staring up at me with a bored, yet contemplative expression.

"He doesn't have to know." Martin handed me a folder he was carrying under his arm.

"One of the officers tracked down the mother. Lilienne Duncan; married to Emil Duncan. Died of TB in 1950," he reported. "Sad..."

I opened the file. It was a death certificate with a photo of the deceased pasted prominently on the top left. She was a young woman with dark hair and tired eyes. She wasn't especially pretty, but her the smile on her cheeks was kind.

I thought of the girl, her life hardly begun, and both her parents already gone from the world. The boy, trying to be strong, but just as helpless as his sister.

"I want to help these kids," I announced. "They deserve justice done."

"They deserve a home, a family, schooling. Maybe counseling," Martin reasoned. "They'll be better off forgetting this as soon as possible, than learning two cops got shot by the mob while trying to avenge their drunkard father."

"You really think there's nothing we can do?"

"Rach," he said. "In a perfect world, the force would have ten times as many officers and there wouldn't even be a mob, but unfortunately, that's not reality."

"Because it's up to us to make it a reality." Martin shook his head.

"I haven't slept well in days, and neither have you," he groaned. "Get the boy some food, and we'll call it a night. Just try to forget this whole thing."


	2. New Beginnings

"Don't be shy," Rachel grinned, setting a steaming bowl of beef and broccoli in front of me. "I already brought one for Nichole."

I grabbed the fork and shoved a chunk of meat in my mouth. It was hot and pretty much flavorless, but I didn't care. I stuffed my mouth before finally swallowing it down with a gulp of water.

"It's weird," I said, pausing in my meal.

"You don't like the taste?"

"That's not what I meant," I murmured. "About tonight, everything that's happened. I thought I'd be more sad. But to be honest..." I shifted my gaze before continuing. "I'm happy he's dead."

I expected the detective to yell at me for that. But she kept silent, and just nodded slowly, her face expressionless. I don't think she really believed how I felt. She probably thought I was just trying to hide it or something, but I really couldn't bring myself to feel anything at all.

At my father's funeral, I didn't shred a tear. If it were up to me, I wouldn't even have gone, but I did for Nichole's sake, who cried enough for the both of us. His being gone didn't make a difference to me. I would be just as well off, if not better, without him. And Nichole would too, eventually. But somehow, I still could stop myself from being mad. Mad that he couldn't have even tried a little hard, and lived. Showed that he cared for once in his life, even a little. I pictured him and his revolver, its barrel spinning again and again, around and around ineffectually because he never bothered to fill it with bullets. I promised myself I would never be so stupid.

Detective Johnson was there too, giving us pitying looks the whole time. I can't say I didn't appreciate her being there, even if it was just a little. Other then her, it was a very intimate service. Nichole and I didn't have any other family to speak of, and the only friends my dad had were the guys he went out to get drunk with.

It took Nicole a little less than six weeks to be whisked out of the orphanage we were placed in and into the apartment of a middle class couple, Martha and Thomas Carter. They were both only interested in a girl. That was fine with me. They had money, which meant Nichole would have a good life. As for me, well I'd just keep doing what I'd been doing all along; working. My personal life had ended as soon as my dad had picked up the bottle.

"I'm not going unless you come too!" Nichole protested after the orphanage head had made the announcement.

"Don't worry about me," I said, whipping tears from her face. "I'll come visit." She shook her head.

"Not good enough."

"Hey. I promise it'll all work out, ok?" I smiled. "When have a ever been wrong?"

**...**

I rolled over on the bed and groaned, wincing at the sound of the alarm clock. It'd been nearly a month since Nichole left the orphanage. The director had forced me back to school, but after the first few days I'd been cutting almost all my classes to work, even taking extra shifts some nights, and saving every penny I could. It was too late to focus on classes when I'd already being slacking for so long. Someone had to pay the bills when my dad was alive, and it sure as hell wasn't him.

"Daniel, get up! If you keep people waiting like this, you'll be here till your eighteen!" the orphanage head, Mr. Springer shouted.

"Coming!" I muttered, getting out of bed and tossing on a shirt and jeans.

"Good luck," my roommate mumbled in his sleep. I offered a small "Uh-huh" in reply before stumbling, still half asleep, down the hall. Mr. Springer ran up to me while I was halfway to the interview room and gave me a swift, slap on the face.

"You can't go in there like that," he cried, chugging the contents of a coffee mug down my throat. I sputtered and choked on the bitter liquid before finally managing to swallow.

"Good, now get in there," he said offering a thumbs up before shoving me into the room. "And try not to fuck up." I sighed as the door shut behind me, and turned to face a well dressed middle aged couple.

"Hey look, I-"

"Hello Daniel," the man said, reaching across the table to shake my hand. "I'm Mr. James Harrison. This is my wife, Diana. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You too," I muttered, unconvincingly.

I was grateful for Mr. Springer for trying so hard. He made sure to put extra effort for the older kids because he knew it was crap getting adopted after you hit your teens. He was a nice enough guy, rough around the edges, but all in all pretty okay. It made me feel bad, cause I knew he was just wasting his time. Anyone who could afford to adopt probably wanted a kid genius who would be a doctor, or lawyer, or some crap like that.

"So, let's get right down to it," Mr. Harrison said. "How old did you say you were again?"

"Sixteen."

"And what are your interests?" Mr. Harrison smiled.

"Like in school?"

"Anything."

"Baseball," I answered. "I was a star pitcher in Little League," I bragged flexing my arm. "Had to stop when I got to high school to pay the bills, but... I can probably still throw a pretty mean curve."

"Any jobs?"

"Mostly restaurant work. Busing, waitering," I replied. "I did get a job cleaning up after a circus this one time. Got to watch a lot of the acts backstage. Needless to say it was the human cannonball that made a the biggest impression." I snickered to myself while the couple just stared at me in confusion. "It was a joke," I explained, rolling my eyes.

"Oh, I see." He forced a chuckle. I wondered if any kid had been put in an orphanage because their parents were too much of a tight-ass.

The couple shared a few looks. I decided I didn't like it. It was as if I was trying to sell myself. Like I had to prove my worth before they accepted me and started milking me for my achievements. But that was just how the whole thing was designed. It was honestly kind of fucked up. You don't interview your kids. You interviewed college students, employees, murder suspects.

"You wanna drink?" I asked, getting up and watching to a small fridge in the corner. "I like a glass myself in the mornings."

"Excuse me?" he cried, clearly shocked at what I'd just said.

"Mr. Springer keeps it locked up and toasts himself when a kid's been adopted," I explained. "But he mutters the combination under his breath every time." I grabbed a bottle and set it down on the table. "Look, it's obvious neither of us wants to be here," I sighed. "So do you just want to leave, or have a drink first?"

**...**

"You told them what?!" Mr. Springer shouted as I lounged on my bed, tossing darts at a target on the wall. Bang! Slightly off center, but nothing to scoff at.

"I told them to leave," I replied, casually. "I told you, I don't need anyone. I'm going to be eighteen in less than two years. Besides, I'm not the type of guy they're looking for. They were just asking me questions to be polite, so I just saved everyone some time."

"Daniel, you-"

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll be out of your hair before you know it. In the mean time, set 'em up in an interview with that glasses kid, what's his name? Chris? Perfect match, right there."

"Chris is fourteen," Mr. Springer considered before turning back to me. "You sure about this?"

"Positive."

"Hey, Christopher!" he shouted as he exited the room.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I sprang up from the bed and shut the room, locking it in case anyone else decided to come in. Then I raced for the bed and pulled out a bag from underneath. I dumped out all the stuff from school onto the bed and began packing only utensils, my catcher's mitt included. It was one of the only things I'd brought with me from the apartment. With the orphanage paying all my expenses, I had saved up a whole four months worth of wages at the restaurant. I stuffed the roll of bills into my pocket.

"Hey, what are you doing?" my roommate asked. He'd been pretending to study all the while Mr. Springer was there, but stopped to turn to me as soon as he'd left.

"I'm leaving," I said, promptly. I knew he wouldn't rat on me. And even if he didn't I'd be long gone by then.

"Where?"

"Wherever the rent's cheap," I replied, picking up the bag to test the weight.

"You really gonna leave all by yourself?"

"Yep." The kid was only twelve, so the thought of ever being alone must have still been pretty unimaginable to him.

"What about school?"

"What about it?" I asked. "You think adults go to school?"

"No, but you're still sixteen ain't ya?"

"Yeah, but I got a job, don't I?" I replied. "That's all being an adult is."

"I thought you quit your's last night."

"I'll find a new one."

"Why don't you just wait till your next interview?"

"Nah," I said. "It ain't gonna make a difference. In two years, I'll be eighteen. Why would I get new folks just for them to kick me out again? Whether I stick around till that happens, or leave now, it makes no difference. Might as well get a head start."

"Well good luck," he muttered. "And remember me when you're rich and famous, okay?"

"Sure," I smiled. "Hey. Do me a favor, ok?"

"Yeah?" he asked eagerly. I pointed down the hall.

"You mind getting me a drink from the fridge before I go?" He groaned in annoyance and slapped himself on the forehead, letting out a little chuckle of amusement before racing down the hall.

"The combination is-"

"I know it!"


	3. Men in Black

The Crocodile Lounge was a less than classy joint in the Lower East Side. Old enough to have seen the rest of the neighborhood in better days. On the outside, there was a cut-out of a crocodile eating a guy, legs-first. It was, by far, the nicest look building on the block, or the whole neighborhood.

The interior of the establishment was dimly lit and oval shaped, with the brightest glow around a small stage nestled beside a piano at one end. The stage was surrounded by a half a dozen booths with the stuffing spilling out of a couple of seats. At the other end, a well polished counter in front of a wall stocked with drinks of every variety.

The owner was a pudgy, older man with a coffee complexion and mustache who the club's patrons called Tarsem. He was a straight-to-the-point kind of guy, I'd met as he was moping the sidewalk outside of the Lounge.

I took a couple of steps back as the soapy water seeped into my shoes. "You there!" he hollered jabbing a finger at me. "Need a job?"

"Er... sure."

"Good," he tossed me the mop. "Finish this."

And that's how I came to work at the Crocodile Lounge. Most days I would mop the sidewalk, wash the windows or scrub down the tables. And after I was done, Tarsem would teach me to mix drinks.

At night, along with most of the pub's customers, a second employee came in, a pretty Asian woman with long, dark hair wrapped in a bun, and a red dress. She walked over to the microphone and tapped her foot a few times before eyeing Tarsem, who look back at her from his seat by the piano. Her voice was strong and beautiful, and despite her accent, I could still make out most of the words. Between songs, she would step down and come over to the counter for a drink.

"You're good," I said with a smile as she took a seat at one of the stools.

"Thank you," she chirped.

"I'm still new to this, so you'll have to ask Tarsem if you want anything too specific," I warned her.

"Sake is fine," she assured me. "Tarem keeps some for me under the table." I got onto my knees and peered underneath the counter where the long and slender barrel of a shotgun had me nearly fall over in shock.

"Are you okay?" the woman asked inching over the counter.

"Fine," I replied, grabbing a odd white flask, which looked more like a long-necked flower pot, and several cups. I got to my feet and set the flask on top of the counter.

"Mind if I try some?"

"No problem."

I poured her a shot before getting myself a cup and taking a tentative sip. It was weak and bland. But I guess as a singer, she wasn't allowed to get too drunk, and ruin the rest of her performances for the night. I must have been making a face because the woman put her hand over her mouth and laughed.

"Sorry," I apologized. "I-" She waved her hand in dismissal.

"No problem," she repeated. As she finished her drink and returned to the stage, I found my eyes shifting back to the shape of the gun beneath the counter.

"Case anyone in here gets too rowdy." I jumped and whirled around to see Tarsem walk up behind me with a steaming mug of coffee.

"Does that happen often?"

"Nah," he muttered. "But I have a feeling..."

"What?"

"Never you mind," he said, licking his lips. "I'm gonna take five, Yuki!" he cried, raising his cup towards the woman across the room. The woman nodded as she started another number. "Ain't she great?"

The next couple days went by rather uneventfully, and at the end of the week, Tarsem sent me out to get a hunk of steak from the butcher's. As I returned to the Lounge through worn down streets, with fences plastered with half-torn, and faded out posters, I heard the faint sound of wailing sirens in the distance. The sound caused me to flinch for a moment, and pause to try and figure out where the sound was coming from.

As the noise grew more and more audible, I felt unease start to build up inside me. Had I given myself away? Where had I slipped up? Did someone from the bar recognize me? I had been too anxious to look, but I was undoubtedly on the missing person's page. Had Tarsem turned me in? Maybe I should've cross over to Jersey before looking for a job.

I froze as I spotted a pair of police cars turned the corner. As they approached, me I wondered whether or not I should run, or pretend I wasn't the one they were looking for. Instead of doing any of the smart options, I simply stood there stupidly as watched as the cars sped up me, barely moving until their sirens disappeared far into the distance.

Finally snapping out of my shock, I ducked into a tailor's shop, where ragged suits hung from the ceiling and hats were displayed on manikin heads. I picked a checked golf cap off one of the heads, thinking it would help hid my face in case any cops did come knocking. I tossed a couple of bills onto the counter. The tailor looked up from his work and eyed me with disdain.

"You're short," he yapped. I searched my pockets, but all I could muster was a handful of spare change. Just as I thought I was going to leave empty handed, a handful of bills fluttered down onto the table.

I turned to see the singer from the Lounge standing beside me. She was dressed much more causally, then when I'd seen her before. Her expensive dress replaced with a sweater, scarf and jeans. Without her makeup, I could make out the beginnings of wrinkles start to weave across her face.

"It's fine," she smiled, giving me a small wink. "I make more, anyways."

"Gee, thanks," I murmured, still a bit surprised.

"I never introduce myself," she said, extending a hand. "My name is Yukiko."

"Daniel."

As I was about to walk out, Yukiko lifted her head towards a pair of men in almost identical suits walked in. She narrowed her eyes at the duo and watched as the approached the counter, and were handed a stack of bills by the cashier. Then, as swiftly as they had arrived, they left, in a black Mercedes parked outside. I looked over to Yukiko who was frowning as she glared at the spot where the car had been.

"Is everything ok?" I asked. She smiled.

"Oh yes, fine."

**...**

"Get me a Manhattan. And don't you even think about leaving out the cherry!"

The place was filled with shady people, from buff street thugs to the occasional hooker to the beat down salary man. It was well into the happy hour and most of the patrons were already heavily intoxicated. I shook up the requested drink and poured it into a tiny glass, adding in a toothpick impaled cherry at the end.

"Ah, that hits the spot!" the man laughed, setting his empty glass down on the table. He was a young man with short hair, whose face was marred by an ugly scar across his nose. "Tell me, kid, how did someone like you end up in a place like this?" I poured him another drink.

"The money was good, what's the mystery?" I replied.

"Is that so?" he chuckled. "Maybe I should consider working here!"

Just then, three men stepped into the bar. I recognized one of them as one of the pair who I'd seen at the tailor's. Another, who seemed to be the boss, stood front and center. He had white hair and was puffing on a fat cigar. The man's two lackeys quickly integrated with the rest of the patrons, while their employer approached Tarsem.

"Boss, it's been a while. How's business?" Tarsem asked.

"Shut up," the greying man grumbled, tossing Tarsem is hat and scarf. Tarsem squinted his eyes. I could see him fuming inside at the man's rudeness. The boss turned and pointed a finger at me. "You," he commanded. "Get me a coffee." I nodded as the men all filed into the back room.

As their voices died down, I looked around and realized the entire bar had gone quiet the moment the men had entered. After several moments, a few of the men began whispering again and the bar quickly returned to its usual disorder.

"Who was that guy?"

"None other than the former King of Crime in this fair city, Vincent Rossi," the scarred man hissed. "I hear he's been running this town since the Prohibition days. But Vinnie well past his prime. He's losing power bit by bit, but is still a pretty dangerous guy," the man replied as a plopped another cherry into his drink. "If you plan on workin' here long, it'll do well to get in good with him. Which means you better hurry up on that joe."


	4. Eavesdropping is Bad

The door to Tarsem's office had been casually left half open. Rossi sat at Tarsem's usual seat with his feet on the desk, while his employee leaned, arms crossed against the wall.

"He only has a handful of followers, as far as I know," I overhead Rossi growl as I reached the door. "Nothing more than street scum. Unfortunately, they've proven to be quite distracting to business. Robbed at least half a dozen joints of mine in the last few months."

"So do you want me to take care of them?" Tarsem asked. I paused a moment to listen.

"Like I said, they don't matter to much at the moment. But there's someone else I do need taken care of, pronto." Rossi motion to the inside of his jacket, but stopped as he noticed me in the doorway. I stepped inside, and set the coffee pot on the desk.

As soon as I stepped out of the office, I felt the door slam behind me. My brain itched with curiosity. A million questions whirled through my mind as I returned to my place behind the bar. It hadn't even occurred to me that this place answered to the mob.

If I tried to quit now, would they let me? If they thought I'll tell the police anything they probably would. But maybe they wouldn't care. Even if the police were effective, organized crime probably far outnumbered them.

If the cops ever decided to raid this place, I didn't want to risk getting locked up with them. I'd wait a week or so, then make up an excuse for quiting. Maybe Tarsem wouldn't connect the pieces.

As I continued rambling internally, Rossi and Tarsem emerged from the back. I quickly rushed into the office to clean up their drinks. The coffee had been lightly sipped, but was mostly untouched. Annoyed, I started to carry the pot and mugs out until I spotted a photo sitting at the desk. I gagged, my heartbeat quickening to a drumroll as I recognized the face.

Nichole's foster father. At first I was sure I'd made a mistake. But as I stared long at the picture, I only grew more sure. It was definitely him. They were after him, for whatever reason, and if they went to his house, they would find Nichole too.

I slowly walked back to the main room, watching as the men put on their coats and prepared to leave. In a moment, they would be gone, and so would Nichole once they got to her. Even if something were to happen to Tarsem, they would get another hitman, someone I knew nothing about. There was probably at least a hundred people in their organization. There was nothing I could do.

Time seemed to stop at that moment as I found myself reaching underneath the counter. In a single quick swipe, I whipped out the shotgun and pointed the barrel at Rossi. I could feel each of my heartbeats Rang in my ears as I held the gun to his head, my hands trembling like crazy.

Rossi's eyes met mine for a brief instant, his expression calm, as if to say, "You can't do it."

And that's when I pulled the trigger.

All of the sudden, the entire bar went silent and all gazes shifted to me. And that when I realized my hands had stopped trembling.

I climbed onto the counter, but before I could leap down and run out the back door, Tarsem shoved me off the table and pinned me to the ground. I groaned as I hit the floor, sure I would be shot in the face in a few moments.

Tarsem whipped out a gun, but instead of aiming it at me, he peered over the counter and pointed it at the other men. Suddenly, glass was flying everywhere as Tarsem and Rossi's men exchanged bullets. I pressed my back against the table, my heart still pounding, trying to avoid the shards from the bottles shattering above me.

As Tarsem took cover to reload his weapon, one of the broken bottles spilled its contents over him. He reached under his shirt and removed a foam bump he had over his stomach before lifting his hand to rip off his face, discarding a plastic skin to the floor.

I stared at the peel, shocked. Underneath was a younger, mid-aged, man with dark hair and chin stubble, neatly trimmed to fit under the makeup. He had paler skin and sharper features than Tarsem.

"1930." He grinned, licking the remaining liquor from his lips. "Good year." He turned me. "Let's go."

He grabbed my arm and jumped over the counter. Rossi's guards lay in motionless heaps on the floor. I guessed the rest of the customers had run out when the shooting had started as there were only 3 other people left in the bar. One of them was Yukiko, the singer, and the other two were the scarred man from earlier and another man I recognized as a regular. All three of them were holding guns which they promptly withdrew as soon as "Tarsem" emerged. The man threw up his arms as he looked at his companions.

"What was that?" he cried.

"We were just waitin' for a good opportunity, boss," the scarred man replied.

He rolled his eyes. "Like after he walked out?"

"Least he's dead," the other man said. He had a bony frame and a slight pomp. "Don't matter to me much who did the doing."

"Shut up," Yukiko groaned. "Let's go before we get catched."

"Good point, Yuki," their boss commented, rubbing his hands. He turned to me. "What about it? You taggin' along?" Before I could respond, the door burst open.

"Tarsem, are you—"

I whirled around to see the face of Detective Johnson, standing in the door, staring wide eyed at the slew of bodies that decorated the floor.

"Looks, like we're been caught red handed," the leader hollered. "Every man for himself!" He snicker to himself as he ran out the back of the Lounge. As he made his escape, he flipped over the countertop, revealing the body of man inside, whose features seemed to resemble Tarsem's perfectly.

"Wait! Stop!" Rachel shouted, pulling out her gun and darting forwards after them. But before she could fire Yukiko whipped out her gun and fired a shot next to her foot before leaving with the rest.

"Daniel, what happened here?" Rachel asked as she slowly lowered her weapon, still staring in the direction the four and left. I looked back at her in silence, seeing the back door in the edge of my vision.

"What—" Rachel repeated beginning to walk towards me. I instinctively took a step back. "Daniel..." she breathed, her eyes pleading for an answer. I bit my lip before sprinting for the back door.

"DANIEL!" I heard her shouted after me. But I didn't stop.

Once I entered the alley outside, I spotted Yukiko and the others running across the street where a white Volkswagen was waiting, parked. I ran across the street after them, not even bothering look both ways. Yukiko smiled when she spotted me, and held open the door to the back seat.

"You kiddin' me?!" the man with the pomp snapped. "We're packed in here!" The boss, who was sitting the passenger seat turned to the back and nodded.

"Looks like it," he agreed. "Blackjack, get in the trunk."

"What?" the goon spluttered. The scarred man and Yukiko both howled with laughter. "Shut up, Frankie."

"Unless you prefer to get ditched." His boss waved his hand in dismissal. Blackjack slid himself out of the car and watched as I took his place.

"Maybe that'll teach you to start doin' your job," his employer scoffed. The driver popped the trunk open and the man reluctantly squeezed into it. His boss watched with amusement before turning to me.

"Jean," he introduced, extended a hand. I took it, and he gave a firm shake. He turned back to the driver, a pot-bellied man with curly brown hair. "Now let's get outta here before the fuzz show up."

"Hey, nice shooting back there, kid," Frankie commented with a chuckle. "I did NOT see that one coming."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll know when we get there," Jean muttered.

The rest of the ride was spent mostly in silence. When the car finally stopped, I jolted awake, realizing I had fallen asleep. Before I'd even opened the car door, I had already detected the smell of the ocean. I got out and looked around, spotting the familiar site of the murky waters of the Hudson.

The place we'd stopped had dozens of warehouses running up and down the river. As our driver departed, I followed the group towards one. The faded sign above the entrance marked it as 025, or maybe 026. Stacks of steel crates lined the walls on the inside and water dripped from the partly collapsed ceiling. I scrunched up my nose, trying to block out the foul stench of rotten fish.

"I'll shuffle," Blackjack announced as he sat down at a table and took out a deck of cards.

"Fine, but I have my eye on you this time," Frankie insisted. "And don't go denyin' it, we all know you cheat. No one has that kinda luck. And one day, I'll catch in you the act."

"It's not luck, it's got nothing to do with luck. It's plain foresight," he retorted. "I happen to have a sixth sense."

"Like I'd believe that," Frankie grumbled, popping open a bottle that was sitting on the floor.

Jean took off his shirt, which was several sizes to big now that he wasn't disguised as Tarsem, and disappeared into an open door. He returned a moment later wearing a half-buttoned white shirt and knee high boots.

"Hold out your hands," he commanded. I obeyed and he handed me his semi-automatic. It was silver with a tiny engraving that read, P-38. Jean raised a finger and pointed to a target taped to the wall. "Now shoot."


	5. A Man Named Daisuke Jigen

My gaze twitched back and forth between the barrel of the pistol and the target. I had never held a gun before, and now two in one day. Trying to account for the distance. If I missed, Jean would have no use for me and I'd be forced to leave. If that happened, either the mob would kill me, or I'd be arrested by the cops by morning. Even if I managed to somehow invade both, there was still Nichole. Without their leader, it was unlikely Nichole's father would be especially high on their list of targets, but if these guys planned to take them on, joining them was the best way I would ensure they didn't get to her.

I squinted at the target and lifted the gun up to eye level. Quickly pinching the trigger, I was surprised as the force of the weapon as it spat the bullet out. The backlash cased my arms to buckle, and my hand to flinch upwards, missing the target by a mile. I stared at the target, stunned.

Jean let out a bored cough. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"Do you think I can try that again?" I asked. He shrugged.

I let out a large breath of air and relaxed my brow, easing my tense shoulders as I refocused the gun on the target. When I was ready, I gave the trigger another jab. The bullet flew out swiftly, and this time I was able to push back against the recoil. The bullet landed dead in the center of the bull's eye. I smiled in satisfaction, firing off the rest of the round. Each bullet landed near the center. I turned back to see Jean's mouth hanging open, dropping his cigarette.

"Where'd you learn to shoot?" he asked. I grinned.

"Today's the first time I fired a gun," I replied, trying to sound too smug about it.

"Don't be like that," he pressured. "Give it to me straight." I shrugged.

"It's true."

"Not even a bee-bee gun at the carnival?" I shook by head.

"No, sir." I gave the back of my head a scratch. "I did used to play baseball when I was a kid," I admitted. "So I have pretty decent hand-eye coordination."

"Baseball?" Jean repeated. He took a moment to process before breaking out into a mad cackle. He pulled out a stool from under the table and made a sharp jab at it. "Sit," he invited. I obeyed and dragged an extra stool up to the table. "Now this you must've done before," he said, sliding me a pair of cards.

"A little." I didn't mention that I sucked. I hoped we weren't going to play for money.

"Good."

"Deal me in," Yukiko said. I hadn't noticed her disappear, but she had changed out of her expensive dress and was wearing jeans and a striped sweater. Though her looks were the same as they had been, it was almost as if, like Jean, what I'd seen her as before was just a disguise, and now, for the first time, I was seeing her true face.

"No problem, darling," Jean smiled sliding a pair of cards towards her. He turned to me, "I almost forgot your little identity dilemma." He continued as I gave him a puzzled look. "You just killed the former head of crime in this city," he muttered. "If we went shouting your name everywhere, we'd all be shot before the end of the week."

His eyes rolled in his head as he pondered for a moment. "Jigen Daisuke!"

I blinked, and gave him a deadpan stare. What kind of alias was that? For a moment, I thought of challenging him, but I knew better. If I was going to stick around, I had to made sure Jean liked me, so instead I just nodded. Names weren't that important anyways.

"It's a foreign name, but it suits you I think," Jean explained. "It's a combination the names of two guys who used to work for me."

"What happened to them?" I asked.

"Dead and buried. Well maybe not the last part," Jean replied, chuckling as he noted my less than enthusiastic expression. "Don't look so glum. After all... no one looks for dead men."

**...**

Needless to say, I was happy the girl was taken in so quickly, but when I heard the boy hadn't been adopted, my relief quickly dissipated. I knew getting adopted at his age wouldn't be easy, but he didn't need that kind of negativity. I'd adopt him myself if I thought I'd make a suitable parent.

Me, someone who was always running around on the job, struggling to pay rent, and barely sleeping most nights. Detectives don't make as much as some people might think, and most of my money went to pay the enormous debt my parents owed. They were both upstanding citizens, my parents; poor, but good people nonetheless. They didn't smoke or drink and had a legitimate business: a small publishing company that helped authors publish their first works.

We lived together above the store in a small apartment in the Bronx. When I was thirteen years old, the store burned down, along with our home. Everyone knew who had set the fires, but no one did a thing, so the perps walked free. My parents were placed at the top of a mountain of debt. I was thrown into an orphanage, and they were thrown onto the streets.

I understood what it was like to grow up alone, knowing that there's was only a very slim chance you would ever find anywhere to belong. Unfortunately, finding orphan runways had to take a backseat to the rest of the cases that had piled up at the station. But then, I suddenly saw him again, out of the blue.

He stared at me, his eyes, hardened. And then, just like that, the man I hated, the man I'd sworn to arrest one day, was dead. Vincent Rossi, the man responsible for all of my misfortunes, and probably Daniel's as well.

"Rach." I snapped out of a daze and lifted my head to see Martin getting up from his desk. "It's late, I'm going home for the night."

"Sure," I murmured in replied. "I was about to go, too."

"Just about to go, as in three more minutes?" Martin smiled. "Or three more hours?"

"I just need to finish this report," I replied, tapping my papers. "Oh, by the way. You ever see anything like this before?" I asked, showing him a photo from my pocket.

"Is that the gun from the Duncan case?"

"Yeah," I replied. "It took forensics a while to identify it. They say the only place they really make them is in Germany."

"Weird..." Martin frowned. I stared at the photo for a while longer before changing to topic. "What were you doing in that place anyways?"

"The Crocodile?" I asked. "I was just passing by."

"You know the owner?"

"I little," I said. "We had a couple of drinks once."

"You should let some else hand this one, Rach." Martin insisted. "And I'm not just saying that 'cause it's dangerous. You know what they say happens when you're _personally involved_."

"Well maybe we should be taking our cases more personally," I snapped. "Then, there might be fewer of them going unsolved."

"That's not what I'm saying!" Martin retorted. "You still see him as some sort of victim. Well the fact is that's not the case anymore." He walked over to my desk. "Promise me you won't try to look for him!" he said. "You might be able to understand what he did, sympathize, hell, you might even wish you'd done it yourself, but the fact is you didn't. And that makes the two of you a world apart. It means that you know what he did was inexcusable, and that he needs to face the consequences."

"Maybe," I murmured. "But I can't just do nothing."

**...**

"This whole block is ready for demolition," Jean announced as we got out of the car.

Larry, our driver, had dropped us off at the site of a run down apartment. The higher up floors had already been knocked down, but the bricks on the base were still there, as well as bits of broken glass. Jean opened the trunk of the car and took out a crate of empty beer bottles.

" _Today_ , you're going to break," he announced, setting the bottles on the ground, " _all_ of these. You have the gun I gave you?"

"Yeah," I replied, pulling it out of my coat. Jean placed a row of bottles atop the brick wall. I raised my gun, preparing to shoot one of the bottles.

"Not so fast!" Jean interrupted. "I already know you're plenty accurate, but are you fast?" he said. "It doesn't matter who well you can shoot, if you don't pull out your guns faster than the guy next you, you're as good as dead." He tossed me a holster. "It goes around your arms."

After inspecting it for a moment, I put the straps on and slipped the Walther in the pouch. I focused my gaze on the bottles as my hand hovered over the gun.

"Go!" Jean barked as my hand immediately dove for the gun. I pulled it out, but before I could pulled the trigger, something incredibly fast zipped past my face. "Too slow!" Jean hollered at me.

"What was that?!" I cried. I whirled my head in the direction it had gone and spotted a dagger embedded in a plaster wall. "You could have killed me!"

"Then you're going to have to try and be a bit faster," he said, a hit of amusement in his tone.

"So what is this _job_ anyways?" I asked, trying to get my chest to stop pounding.

"We're hijacking a helicopter full of guns," he replied causally. "Without Rossi, the leadership of his gang'll be hanging on by a bent twig," Jean explained. "Sooner or later, most of them will probably join up with Marcel Leone. He's been making waves these last couple of years, gained a lot of a territory, especially in Midtown," he explained. "They say that America's the land of opportunity. Do know what that means?"

"Jobs and money and stuff. I guess." I shrugged. "If you're rich."

"And right now, the people in this town are dirt poor," Jean agreed. "The mayor thinks he can change things by knockin' a few buildings down and making new places for rich folk. Passed the old, but not quite at the new— that's where you'll find opportunity," he said. "Right now Rossi's gang is like a steak in cage full of starving dogs. They kill each other, and the one that's still alive at the end gets it to eat the best meal he's had in his life. There's one thing that sets us apart from all the other mutts in the pound, and that's this." He walked over to the wall and pulled out the blade.

"A knife?" I raised an eyebrow. The weapon shimmered like water in the sun, without a visible scratch anywhere, and the tip was barely the thickness of a needle.

"Not just any knife," he grinned. "Our ticket to the top. You stick we me, and I can make both of us very wealthy men."


	6. Trigger

We stood inside a vacant room in the fortieth floor of an apartment building. The painted walls were smooth, if a bit dirty. I walked over to the window where Jean was position, peering through a pair of binoculars at docks across the street. Outside, the white slit of the moon was high overhead.

"Take a look." he said, handed me the binoculars. I crushed a bug that was scurrying across the wooden floor before kneeling. Peering through the lens, I watched a handful of men seeming to shout at one another beside a vacant helipad

"Yeah, what?" I muttered, the smoke from Jean's cigarette almost making me gag.

"That man's name is Nigel Carlos," he explained, adjusted the binoculars so that they pointed to a bespectacled man standing apart from the rest. He was watching the other men argue with his hands behind his back. As I watched, the man began speaking, immediately catching the attention of the rest. Jean looked at his watch.

"Looks like we're going to have to sit tight for a while," he sighed, putting his arms behind his head and lying down on the floor. I sighed, and leaned back against the wall.

"You nervous?" Jean asked.

"A little," I muttered.

"It goes away after the first couple of times," he replied. "And when it does, it's the most freeing feeling in the world."

"So how did you get started in all this?" I asked, earnestly.

"It's a long story," Jean chuckled. "It was before you were born, before the Second World War. I'll tell you some other time." We waited in silence for several minutes before Jean glanced at his watch again.

"They should be in position about now," he announced. "We better get up there."

"Can't you 'em shoot from here?"

"Not unless you want them to corner us in this tiny room." He gestured at me to get up, before picking up a guitar case from the floor and slinging it around his shoulder. I followed him up a flight of stairs and onto the roof where we both sat, crouch, facing the opposite rooftop.

"Once they've realize we've swamp their men with Yukiko and the others, they'll be looking for us," Jean whispered. "And when they do, it'll be up to you to deal with them, ok?"

"Right," I nodded.

"You'll be outnumbered, but just try and buy a bit of time until I finish up," he instructed. "And as for me-" Jean set down the guitar case and undid the unbuckles. Inside were the pieces of a sniper rifle. He expertly assembled the weapon and stared through the scope.

I stepped into the stairway. Looking down, I could see the staircase spiral down until it reached the lobby. So far, all seemed quiet.

Suddenly, I got an idea. I ran down the stairs and back to the fortieth floor before calling the elevator. Once it came, I got inside and slid my finger down all the buttons before getting out. I watched the arrow move from 40 to 39 before stopping. Satisfied, I trudged back up the steps to the roof.

"Where were you?" Jean asked.

"Just taking a precaution," I replied with a smile. He cocked an eyebrow, before turning his attention back to the sniper.

"Looks like our package is here," he grinned as a helicopter appeared and started hovering over the docks. "And right on time, too."

From the roof, it was impossible to identify individual people, but I noticed a small cluster of men in uniforms. Once the aircraft landed, they approached the helicopter and began unloading the shipment and onto a truck parked nearby. There was a slight whizzing sound as Jean fired his weapon, shattering the front glass, and killing the pilot. I picked up the binoculars just as Yukiko gave us a quick wave before punching out one of the men. Jean chuckled and waved back.

Just then, I heard the echoing of footsteps as someone began ascending the stairs below. From the middle of the steps, I looked down to see a group of 3 or 4 men making their way up from the fiftieth floor. How had they gotten here so quickly? It would have taken at least half an hour before the elevator reached the ground floor.

"Jean?" I murmured.

"Hold on..."

"Argh!" I cried, as a spray of bullets flew up the stairs.

I pulled my head from the railing and pulled out the Walther. Lying on the steps, I fired two shots down from the edge of the steps before stumbling back onto the roof. I heard one of the men groan in pain and blood dripping from his shoulder as the group turned the corner.

"Jean!" I shouted, as a bullet flew past my face, only just missing me. I slammed the door to the stair case, using all my weight in attempt to hold it shut.

"Done," Jean grinned, shoving the sniper back into the guitar case. I dove away from the door just as a blast blew the doorknob off.

"Get back," Jean instructed. "And stay close." I obeyed as Jean quickly pulled out a knife. It was same one he'd shown me at the construction site. But the men were all armed with guns. He didn't stand a chance.

This didn't seem to faze him however as the men swarmed around us on the roof. Jean brushed the blade though the air, like some kind of mad artist working diligently on his masterpiece. I watched in shock as dozens of bullets fell in half at his feet.

As the men dove out of the way to reload, Jean ran after them, plunging the knife straight through the forehead of one who had sought cover behind the door. I picked up the guitar case and threw it at the man I'd shot earlier, temporarily distracting him before firing a bullet through the case and into his stomach. My second landed in his chest, causing him to fall to the floor.

I looked around for Jean only to hear a click as the third man pointed a pistol at point blank. I shut my eyes, waiting for the sound of gunfire which never came. Instead, the gun in the man's hand fell apart as the tip of a blade stuck out from his neck.

"Do you hear something?" Jean asked. "Like a beeping?" He brushed aside the man's jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Strapping to his chest were half a dozen sticks if dynamite as well as a clock that was quickly counting down.

"Shit." Jean grabbed my arm and ran to the edge of the roof.

"Hold on-"

"Knees in, head down!" he shouted before leaping off the roof.

I wrapped my arms around my head and face as the force on the explosion carried us onto the neighboring building. We landed on hard wood as my back hit the scaffolding that surrounded neighboring building. I looked back to see that the bomb and blown off the top two floors of the apartments.

"Argh!" I heard Jean groan as he flipped onto his stomach. "I think I fucked up my back a little. Shit!" he seethed. There was a crack as he slowly got up and stretched.

"I think they knew we were coming," I declared. "I stopped the elevator, they had to have been waiting for us on the fifty floor." Jean paused and slowly turned his head, his eyes wide with shock.

"Oh my god," he murmured. "Yukiko." He rushed to the edge of the scaffold, but the helicopter was no longer in sight.

"Shit!" he seethed. He whirled back around to face the building and smashed a window with his foot. Crawling through the broken glass, he disappeared inside the room.

"Jean?" I hissed before slipping in through the window after him.

The room was empty, the floor covered with white paper held down by paint cans. I exited the room and followed Jean into a space with large comfy looking sofas and a long coffee table.

"Jean!" I whispered. "Someone lives here." But he ignored me, walking straight to the front door. I hurried to the door, shutting it behind me just as I heard a light flicker on inside the apartment.

"We need to find a phone booth," Jean announced finally, pushing a button on the elevator. As we rode down to the lobby, Jean fished in his pockets and pulled out pack of cigarettes.

"You want one?"

I'd never smoked before, but I took it anyways. I looked the cigarette over and rolled it around my fingers before hesitantly sticking it between my lips. I watched as Jean pulled a second cigarette out with his teeth and flicked on a lighter before offering the flame to me.

I leaned forward cautiously until the tip of the cigarette ignited. The smoke tasted sweet and dry at the same time, like a burnt barbecued steak. I puffed it out in a breath as the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.


	7. Ugly Aftermath

Once we got to the lobby of the building, I ran out into the street and shoved a coin into a payphone, jabbing the buttons for the number I'd memorized. I'd instructed Larry to wait for a us a few blocks away in case backup was need, but this would be the first time that precaution paid off. I tapped my foot impatiently as I waited for the phone to ring. Once it'd rung three times, I hung up.

In less then a minute, Larry had pulled up to the sidewalk. I slid into the passenger seat, and Jigen dove into the back. Without me even saying a word, Larry turned the corner and headed for the docks. As we drove along the water, I pushed the roof open and stuck my head out. The pungent scent of fish and salt immediately hit my senses as I fought against the sea breeze. Just ahead, I could see the helicopter hovering over the water.

"Yukiko!" I hollered, but the harsh winds only blew my words back in my face. "Get out of there!" I gritted my teeth and down the road, hopelessly, turning to think of something I could do. Something to make her hear me.

"Boss! Watch out!" I whirled around just as a missile zoomed past my line of sight and straight out to sea. Before I could react, there was an earth-shattering explosion as the the helicopter went up in flames. What was left of it falling into the ocean.

"YUKIKO!" I roared. Without waiting for Larry to push the brakes, I leapt out of the car, dropping into a roll across the boardwalk, and into the water.

A shock went through my skin, as the cold sea invaded every inch of my body. I padded at the water frantically, shooting forward like a jet. Ignoring the water's icy coldness, I swam towards where the helicopter had been, forcing myself deeper and deeper.

The water around me was stale and murky. It was nearly impossible to see what was even a few inches ahead. My lungs began to burn, screaming for air, but I ignored it. The salt water burned my eyes, but I kept going. I batted the water, desperately trying to feel for something warm and soft. Any hint at where Yukiko and the others had landed.

Suddenly, the fire in my chest erupted and I instinctively filled my lungs with the nonexistent air. I sank in the water like a stone as my chest filled with water. I flailed for a few seconds before my muscles collapsed and the world began to fade around me. Before I could fade out completely, I felt myself begin to rise. There was a sharp jab at my stomach, causing me to cough up a mouthful of salt water and saliva. I rose my head, engulfing the air around me, as my heart pounded in my ears.

"Stupid," I heard Yukiko's voice muttered. "You know I can swim better than you." I let out a chuckled mixed with a cough. My near death experience forgotten, replaced with a wave of relief at the sound of Yuki's voice. As my breath slowed I eased back into the water, taking deep breaths and staying afloat above the surface.

"Right," I whispered. "Sorry, baby." I rubbed the salt water out of my eyes and opened them just a crack, enough to see her face outlined above me, so that could lean over and give her a peck on the cheek.

"Did the rest of the gang make it out ok?" I asked, looking around me for the first time. Yukiko had being swimming along a fishing boat so that it blocked the view of the dock, preventing Carlos's men from spotting us.

"I told Frankie and Blackjack to swim to shore and wait," she said. "I don't know about the other two." I looked towards the opposite shore, and back at the boat. "It's probably too late to go back for them. Carlos's men would have captured them both by now."

"I going," I insisted, letting go of her. Yukiko reached over and grabbed my arm.

"There are at least half a dozen of them waiting for you," she cried. "As soon as you stick your head up they'll shoot you. It's too dangerous."

"Maybe at one point," I replied, whipping out my knife. "But I'm not who I was before."

"You're not invincible!" she protested, he grip around my hand tightening. I sighed, putting both my hands on her shoulders and pulling her close.

"I promised you I would protect our family. I won't break that promise a second time," I murmured. "But you have to trust me." I pulled away from the embrace and stared into her eyes. Yukiko furrowed her burrow, her expression still filled with doubt. Finally she nodded. I smiled.

"Wait for me here," I said. "I'll be back soon, I swear." I dove under and started to swim around the boat, and back towards shore. After I'd gone a few feet, I felt a gentle touch on my arm. I turned and spotted a wave of flowing dark hair beside me in the water. Though I would have been willing to go alone, I was grateful for her presence.

We swam back towards the dock, slipping underneath the boardwalk and watching the shoes of the men shuffling above.

"We know you're out there!" one of them shouted. "Don Carlos is only interested capturing you alive, so he'll be more than happy to hear I blew the brains out of two of your partners!"

I clenched my teeth into a grin and raised the dagger up to the bottom of the boardwalk's planks. Drawing the tip of the blade across the wood, I sliced out a rectangle in the boardwalk. I swam back and slid the knife back into its sheath. As soon as it clicked, the boardwalk above collapsed, along with the men standing on it.

Targeting one of the men who fell, I dove underwater, raising the dagger before gutting him. Blood poured out of his stomach staining the water red. I swam towards each of the bodies stabbing them one after the other. Once I was satisfied I'd gotten them all, I looked around for Yukiko. I spotted her on the opposite end of the boardwalk gap. Beside here was Larry and Jigen who were clinging to the boardwalk pillars. The latter had an odd expression on his face.

"Jean, watch out!" he roared. My gaze shifted upwards. A man stood on the edge of the boardwalk above, a gun trained on me.

Before I could react, I felt a strange tingle in my stomach. I knew last night's shrimps looked questionable. Feeling slightly sick, I leaned back in the water which had turned a deep shade of red. My vision started to blur, as I quickly lost consciousness to the screams around me.

...

When I opened my eyes, my head felt as if someone had taken a hammer to it. I groaned as I stared at the ceiling, its paint slightly chipped. The overpowering scent of cat told me I was in Larry's apartment. My thoughts were confirmed when a black and white tabby leapt onto the drawer beside my bed. I squinted at the animal, my eyes deadlocked with its.

"Don't. You. Dare," I hissed. The cat ignored me, of course, and hopped onto my stomach. I grunted in pain as it turned circles and settled down to sleep on me. Before I could raise my arms to strangle it, Larry entered the room and picked up his pet.

"Sorry, about that, boss," he chuckled. "She just likes meeting new people."

"Shut up," I snapped. "Where's Yukiko?"

"Oh, she went out to get something for you to eat when you woke up," he replied. "She sent Blackjack and Frankie out to get the word on the street. And the new kid's waiting in the living room."

"How long was I out?" I muttered?

"All of yesterday," he reported, looking up at a wall clock. "It's almost eight in the morning right now." I groaned as I forced myself up. Getting out of the bed and stumbling outside.

"I don't think that's a good idea!" Larry cried. "Ms. Yukiko gave me specific instructions not to let you out of bed!"

"I'll deal with my wife when she gets back."

The living room doubled as a kitchen with a couch and coffee table on one end and a tiny fridge on the other. Jigen lay across the couch, flipping through the channels on the TV. When he spotted me, he sat up, leaving me room to sit beside him. Instead, I walked over to the fridge and got out a bottle of liquor and two glasses.

"How do you feel?" Jigen asked as I sat down.

"Like shit," I muttered filling both cups to the rim. "What's the matter with you?"

"What do you mean?" he replied, defensive.

"You know what I've noticed about you?" I said. "You're compliant. You came with us, and joined us and did what I told you to do without question. You haven't asked why I was disguised as Tarsem, why we were there, or anything. All this running around. Shooting one of city's crime bosses. And what for? Now I'm pretty great, but even I'm not as deluded to assume that was all for my sake," I joked, chugging the drink. "So, who is it? Parents, sibling, girlfriend, boyfriend?" I chuckled, holding my hands up in surrender when he gave me a weird look. "Hey, I'm not judging here!" He was silent.

"We all have things we regret," I added. Jigen turned to me.

"Like what?" he murmured. I paused, to pour myself another drink, emptying the glass in one gulp before slamming the glass back down on the table.

"I had a son who has only a few years younger than yourself," I confessed. "Didn't even made it to his tenth birthday. Sometimes I think about him and what kind of man he would have grown up to be, if he had the chance." I looked over to Jigen and smiled. "You remind me of him, you know."

"Yeah, how?" he said, quietly.

"Sweet kid. Maybe too much so to be in this line of work, but somehow ended up in it anyways." I splashed what remained of the bottle in the glass, some of its contents spilled over the table. "I suppose every son is destined to follow in their father's footsteps."

"I hope not," Jigen muttered.

"Me too."


	8. Waiting

Despite my new polished surroundings, I felt no joy at being in the extravagant home of my former friend and employer. I sat on a folding chair on the balcony as trying to enjoy my breakfast of toast and eggs. What I ate had not flavor, especially when I knew that every new day might as well be my last. Marcel's men were only too plentiful. More than a handful of my best had already been killed. And then there were the new guys. As the new boss, I was no doubt at the top of their list.

"Mr. Carlos?" the butler said, sliding the screen open a crack. "Mr. Leone is here to see you."

"What?!" I roared, bolting up from the table. "How did he find this place?!" My heart raced. Would this be it? Would I died here and now, leaving behind a half finished breakfast?

I paused to consider for a moment. If Marcel wanted to kill me, he would have sent men bursting in like middle aged women in a supermarket sale. I start back down and waited for my breathing to slow.

"Let him in," I said finally. The butler nodded.

"Very good, sir."

As he left, I pushed away the half finished plate and scanned the skyscrapers for any hidden snipers.

"Carlos! It's been a while!" I turned my head as Marcel entered the living room. "How does it feel to be sitting in the big man's chair at last?"

He had a large coat draped over his shoulder and both hands in his pockets. His dirty blonde hair was gelled and twisted into a style that said he was better than you and he knew 's tone was always a causal one. One which was indifferent, while at the same time wholly judgmental.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"No need to be hostile." He frowned and sat down on one of the sofas. "Come inside, I'm not much of an outdoors person." My eyes narrowed as I slowly got up and repositioned myself on a chair opposite him. I sat with my legs apart, leaning forward.

"Why are you here?" I repeated.

"Nothing too serious," he replied. "Let's face it, we've lost a _great_ man recently. I had _nothing_ , but _respect_ for Don Rossi."

"Enough to go against him and destroy the empire he spent a lifetime building," I seethed. Marcel shrugged.

"Business is business," he said. "And it's my understanding you've been having trouble with a certain third party lately?"

"I wouldn't call it trouble," I replied. "But if they're bother you-"

"Unfortunately, not," he interrupted. "I'd just like to land a hand to my former brothers. A temporary truce while you deal with them."

"And in return?"

"Don't be so cynical," Marcel sniffed. "It wouldn't be all that impressive for me to snatch a crumbling empire out of dead man's hands. I just want to let the competition simmer a little longer before enjoying myself. He took out a marker and walked over to the balcony screen. "All I'm offering is a bit of free information. The name of the boy who shot Rossi."

I watched as he scribble a name onto the glass. D-A-N-I-E-L D-U-N-C-A-N.

"What good does that do?" I muttered. "I don't know who that is."

"Yes, but I think you'll find his relations very interesting."

**...**

The air in the car was cold. I couldn't afford to have the heat on all night so I had to constantly fight to prevent the blanket over my shoulders from slipping down. My eyes fixed to the house across the street. A slender, four story brownstone with a small potted planet at the top of the steps by the door. Too bad my salary could never afford something so fancy.

But I wasn't here to go house shopping. I'd been watching the Carter residence for the past week, every night, as soon as I got off duty. I stayed there every night until morning, hoping Daniel would come by, or anyone who would lead me to him. There had been nothing so far, which, I don't know should be considered good or bad. Suddenly I heard a tapping at the window. I turned around to see Martin standing outside the car, waving. I unlocked the door, and he slid into the passenger seat.

"How did you find me?" I asked. He shrugged.

"Call it a hunch," he said, handing me a paper bag. "Want some coffee? You look like you could use it."

"Thanks," I murmured, holding the warm cup in my hands. I took a tentative sip, feeling the warmth spread through my body. Martin smiled.

"So what are you going to do when you see him?" he asked.

"Talk."

"Just talk?" Martin inquired. "It's been month since you last saw him. You still feel like you know him. Even after everything?" I rubbed by temples. Martin's points were one I'd been considering myself for the past weeks.

"I don't know," I answered. "But whatever he's done, prison is the last place he should be. The mob guards that place better than we do, he'll won't last the night. That's not justice."

"You're too concerned about other people," he replied. "Worry, worry, worry. You should be more worried about yourself. But if you didn't know this boy, would you be hesitating as much?" I didn't reply. "Well I'd say no. No one would even be trying to find him, and if they were, it would be to cuff him for life. Keep another menace to society off the streets."

"Is that what you want to do?" I asked. Martin was silent for a moment, quietly contemplating the idea.

Finally, he shook his head. "No."

"That's all I wanted to hear," I whispered. "I'll try and be careful, but this is something I need to do. You should get home, it's pretty late." Martin stretched and let out a loud yawn.

"We've both stayed up later," he insisted. "Besides we're partners, aren't we?" He grinned as I looked to him. "We can take shifts if you want." I smiled, suddenly feeling much relieved, my entire body warming up as I finished the last of my coffee. It was good to have someone I could count on.

**...**

I stuffed my hands in my pockets as I listened to Jean go over his plan. Blackjack and Frankie had announced that the real shipment had been sent out a few hours before the false crates we picked up, and that the payment for it would be delivered to a mob bank in a truck. Jean had declared that we would proceed with caution. If we succeeded in intercepting the truck full of unmarked bills, it would mean the end of Rossi's, now Carlos's, gang.

"Go find us a street corner. Row roofs, pothole at a convenient location," he told the two men. "Jigen, go get a thick rope and umbrella. Larry, rent a car for a few days. Inconspicuous sand cheap." He handed us both a wad a bills he had stashed in Larry's apartment from previous heists. "Yukiko, get nails, and booze, lots of it."

As the rest of the gang set off to perform their assigned duties, I lingered, waiting till everyone had gone before I spoke.

"I'm thinking about leaving. After this job is done," I confessed.

"I see," Jean said, seemingly unsurprised. "Well, I ain't gonna to stop you. I'll miss ya though."

"Thank you," I said, dipping my head.

"What for?" He smiled. Jean looked down as a red tinge appeared on his shirt. "Damn. Opened it again." He sighed and got up. I handed him the roll on the counter, and sat down on the couch as he went to the bathroom to change his bandages.

"So was all this just your little revenge scheme?" Jean muttered from inside. "You shoot Rossi, joined us, and leave after I say his gang's going to fall apart." I stared at the closed door. After a long pause I responded.

"Something like that."

"I see, so what's step two?" he asked. "If you don't mind me asking." Another long pause. "Forget it," he said as he stepped back into the living room. "You don't have to tell me." I nodded relieved. Jean looked at me, as if he still expect me to say something. "Do still gotta get that rope though." I bolted up from my seat.

"Right!" I grabbed my hat and hurried out the door.

"Kids..."


	9. Heavy is the Cost

For the second time that week, we waited on a rooftop. Only this time Jean didn't have a gun. He was instead armed with only a dagger. Through I had witness firsthand what the blade was capable of, I'd also seen Jean get shot while he had it. And now, in his still-wounded state, the possibility of a second injury would be all the more likely.

I tore the plastic covering off the umbrella I'd bought and tied the rope around its handle. I handed the contraption to Jean who was peering over the edge of the roof, waiting for a signal from the pair below. Blackjack was standing at the street corner, out an office building, wearing a nice suit and smoking a cigarette. Frankie sat further up the block lounging with his arms spread wide across the backrest of a bench. On the opposite roof, Yukiko waited patiently for the truck to arrive. Jean lit a cigarette as he tied the other end of the rope to a television antenna on the roof.

"I was thinking about getting myself a nice suit to celebrate the occasion," he said, tugged the collar of his shirt. "Something smart. Are you sure you don't want a cut? Can't hurt to have a little money in your pockets."

"I won't need it," I replied.

"Won't need it?" Jean chuckled. "What kind of place are you going? Maybe I should consider coming with you!" he joked.

He looked downward and gave the thumbs up before tossing the umbrella frame towards Yukiko. Yukiko leaned forwards off the edge of the building and caught the wire frame, sticking the sharp edges into the brick until it held.

"Here we go," Jean muttered.

He grabbed the mid-section of the rope and leapt off the edge of the building, plummeting towards the street below just as the bank truck came into view. As he descended closer and closer towards the street, he raised his dagger, cutting the rope in half and swinging towards the top of the truck. I watched him land squarely before excitedly running back into the building and into the elevator.

When I walked out onto the street, Blackjack and Frankie where both nowhere to be see. I spotted Yukiko hiding inconspicuously in a phonebooth, waiting to act as backup. Feeling confident, I headed start towards the bank trunk. The front wheel of the vehicle had been punctured by the nails, expertly placed.

The smell of blood inside the truck was strong. No doubt Jean had already gone to town on the drivers. On the roof of the truck there was a gaping hole, where he'd cut his way through with the dagger. I walked around to the back of the truck.

"Jean-" I started, only to see a brown haired man in a suit pointing into the trunk. Jean had his back turned and hands raised, his eyes squinted as he glared at the man. Without a second thought, I whipped out my gun and shot him in the back. He cried out in pain and shock before falling to the floor.

I stared at his body for a moment before looking up at Jean, who gave me a smile before grabbing two suitcases from the back of the truck and heading straight for the open pothole down the street.

**...**

When I woke, it was morning, and the sun was already well into its daily climb up the sky. I noticed Marty's absence almost immediately. He should've woken me at six and it was already past seven. Had he already gone to the station? I spotted a slip of paper sitting on the dashboard. There was a note written on it:

_"Out to get more coffee. Be back soon."_

I wonder when he'd left. He should be back by now, shouldn't he? I was about to get out the car when I heard sirens in the distances. I turned on the engine just as a squad car sped by me. Fully awake, I made a U-turn and hurried down the street after them. Jet would be worried where I was, but there would be time to explain later.

Oddly, the car I followed didn't go more than two or three blocks before pulling over. I got out and approached the car as the two uniformed officers got out. Before I reach the car, before my eyes even had the chance to fully process the scene, my mind had already told me to duck. I slammed my back against the doors of the police car, as the two uniformed officers did the same.

"What's happening?" I asked one of the officers, quickly flashing my badge as bullets flew over our heads.

"We got a call about armed robbery," he replied. "At least three suspects involved." I nodded.

The spray of bullets seemed to have quieted down a bit. I pulled out my pistol and inched over the edge of the car. A few feet away was an open pothole, which two men were making a beeline towards. I stepped out just as one of them jumped into the sewers, just in time to hold the second at gun point.

He was a young man. I could tell that much despite his face, which was mostly concealed by a hat. Although I couldn't see what he looked like, there was something familiar about him. In one hand he clutched something I recognized immediately.

"That's-" I started. The man, thinking he'd caught me off guard raised his weapon. But before he could fire a shot, I pulled the trigger, blowing his hat off his head.

I nearly cried out when I recognized his face. Staring back at me with eyes glazed with shock was Daniel.

"D-don't move," I demanded, trying not to make my surprise all too apparent. "Drop your weapon." He obeyed. Kicking the gun into the sewers. I gulped, expecting the man in the sewers to pull a fast one on me. Luckily, the two uniformed officers came to stand beside me, each training their guns at Daniel, or his companion in the sewers.

"Now-" But before I could get another word out, the sound of shattering glass caused me to instinctively turn around. The front window of my car was gone and a woman with long dark hair fled around the corner.

"Get an ambulance down here!" I ordered the two officers before darting after the woman. I'd only seen her face for a moment, but I recognized her immediately. She was the same woman I'd met at the Lounge.

Along with that realization, something inside me _broke_. Shaking all other thoughts aside for a moment, I ran down the block, turning the corner into an alley where I could hear the woman's footsteps echo in the dark and narrow space. Confident she would end up at a dead end, I slowed down, in case she decided to turn and counterattack. When she arrived at the wall, she turned to face me, a confident smile on her lips.

"Where's backup?" she taunted, holding her hands high above her head.

"What about yours?" I retorted. She grinned.

"Here," she cried jumping into the air just as a pair of arms appeared over the other side of the wall and grabbed her hands pulling her up over the wall. I fired my gun, missing her, but skimming her pant leg, making a tear, before the bullet lodged into the wall.

I screamed in frustration as the woman disappeared for a second time. How had they done it? It seemed as if they'd planned everything perfectly down to the tee. How many of them where they exactly? And what exactly was Daniel doing with them?

As he heard the wail of an ambulance approaching, I returned to the scene. A large crowd had gathered and the two uniformed officers were doing there best to keep them back before backup arrived. I forced my way through the mob, keeping to the side of the ambulance, hoping whoever was injured wouldn't be too badly. As I broke through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of his chestnut brown hair.

"Marty!" I roared, running up to the ambulance. One of the paramedics held me back. I watched in silence as they hosted his body into the back of the van, my vision getting blurred as tears well in my eyes. I covered my face, seething in frustration at my own stupidity. My throat felt as if a giant lump of ice and gotten caught in it, choking me with every breath.

At that moment, everything else _shattered_.


	10. Surrender

"WOOOHOOOOO!" roared Frankie's warcry as he threw his fists in the air and popped open a bottle. Foamed oozed out the top and spilled all over the floor. Zoey quickly joined to lap it up.

"No, no, no," Larry scolded, picking up his cat. "That's not good for kitties!" Jean, after shoot Larry and the cat a look disdain, raised his glass.

"A toast!" he declared. "To all our future success!"

"To the future!" Yukiko agreed.

"To the future!" everyone cheered in unison.

I raised my glass. Some of the liquor sloshing over the brim of the cup. I empty the glass in one gulp before setting the cup down on the top. Blackjack poured me another up. I brought it to my lips before slowly putting down the glass. I would have to be careful to to celebrate too much.

"There's an abandoned theater down the street," Jean pointed out once everyone had quieted down a little. "I've had my eye on it for a while. I thought that should be the first place we open shop. A little remodeling work here and there. Could be a classy little joint." The others murmured in agreement, though I guess they were a bit too wrapped up in their drinks to pay much notice.

They continued drinking late into the afternoon until they were all pasted out on the living room floor. Other than I, who'd only had a couple of glasses, Jean was the only one still conscious.

"They're all a buncha lightweights!" he declared, slouching on the couch with a grin on his face. I smiled back, taking the Walther out of my pocket and handing it to him. "You keep'it," he insisted, trying to push my hand back, but only swiping air. "I don't need it anymore."

"Oh shaddup," Blackjack muttered in his sleep. Yukiko groaned irritably. I put the gun back in my pocket. As I turned to leave, paused for a moment before speaking again.

"Thanks," I whispered. "For everything."

**...**

Strolling through the city at night was like walking through a tunnel. You didn't pay much attention to what was around you, you only knew where you started and where you would end up. I walked slowly, hesitantly, stopping every few steps to kick a rolled up piece of newspaper. The sun was just beginning to creep up on the horizon by the time I reached Nichole's street.

I walked up to the steps of the four story brownstone and sat myself down, staring at the ants crawling in line on the pavement. Just then, a shadow fell over me. I knew who it was before even looking up.

"I'm not here to fight," I announced. "I've already decided to go with you, so you can put away the gun." Rachel stared at me for a long moment, and I met her gaze with calm eyes. Finally, she withdrew her weapon and took out a pair of cuffs. I held my hands out as she roughly snapped the bracelets around my wrists.

"Where's your gun?" she rasped, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

"In my jacket," I said, flinching at the grim hostility in her eyes.

Rachel pulled out the Walther and emptied its bullets into her palm, shoving both into a clear evidence bag, and then into the pocket of her coat. She shoved me into the back of the police car and slammed the door shut. After getting in the driver's seat she sat at the wheel in silence for several moments before taking a photo from atop the dashboard and turning to me.

"This was the bullet that shot my partner yesterday," she explained. "Do you recognize it?" She pulled out the evidence bag and pushed the identical bullets up against the bars dividing the front and back of the car.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, turning away from the photo. "I didn't know."

I vaguely recalled Rachel's partner, but I hadn't seen him in months, and his face was a blur in my mind. I'd shot him to save Jean. For all I'd known, he was another one of Carlos's men, and would've shot Jean in the next instant without hesitation. And who's to say he wouldn't have?

"This is the same type of bullet that killed your father," Rachel added. With that, my head whirled back towards her, staring at the picture in shock. Rachel's nose winkled at this. It was as if she was trying to see all the ways she could get a reaction out of me. As my brain fit all the pieces together, an odd tranquility washed over me.

"Well isn't that ironic?"

The fact was, everything I'd felt for my father had always been certain to me. The man who never did a day of work in his life, who drank until he went broke, and who never gave Nichole or me a wink of attention. Him being killed didn't change any of that. If anything, it just helped me to see that I could make a name for myself on my own, as someone who was liked, respected, maybe even admired.

Rachel furrowed her brow, but didn't say any more. She started the engine of the car, but before she could drive off, I spotted a man in a suit and tie standing outside Nichole's house, hands in his pockets. When he saw me he smiled, a curved, thin lipped smile. I pressed myself against the window and watched the man as we drove away.

"Stop!" I shouted, but Rachel ignored me. "You have to turn back!" I demanded, banging my head against the bars. "Nichole's in danger!" Unsurprisingly she didn't stop.

Gritting my teeth, I watched the figure in front of Nichole's house grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared from view. There had to be a way for me to escape. I was on my last bullet, and if I wasted it, I'd be left with nothing but a spinning barrel.

**...**

For the first time, I spent the night in a jail cell. One of the detectives had interrogated me a for a few hours. I'd told him about Rossi and the Crocodile Lounge, and the bank operation, but had left out most of the details regarding Jean. I tried to warn them about Nichole, but none of them believed me. Even after one of them called Nichole's foster father, he insisted they were all fine. But I knew what I'd seen.

The holding cell they put me in was cold, and smelled of sweat. I was sure there would be roaches and mice in the dark space, so I slept upright, leaning against the wall, listening to the snores of the other prisoners as I fell asleep. It was a shallow, restless sleep, which I was roused from by a faint hissing from beyond the walls of the cell.

I stood up as I heard footsteps approaching the cells. As the sound grew louder, I realized it was coming from several people rather than just one. As the door to the hallway of cells opened, I peered through the glass at the visitor. He wore a gas mask over his head, and as soon as he removed it, I immediately recognizing his smug expression.

"Jean!" I cried, banging on the glass of my door. The man whirled around in confusion at the sound of his name before his features brightening as he saw me. His white shirt and boots had been replaced with a sharp-looking, buttoned up, dark purple pinstripe with red shirt and white tie.

"Jigen!" he laughed. "What the hell are you doing in there?" Before I could answer, he reached over and fiddled with the cell's lock.

"You're not going to be able to pick that!" I said. "Try and find a-"

"Key?" he finished as the door swung open.

"How did you?"

"Only a sucker tells you how he did it," Jean grinned.

"We can't stay here," I cried. "Earlier, when I was arrested, I saw one of Carlos's men outside my sister's house. We have to go and-"

"Calm down," Jean interrupted, his voice turning serious. He ushered me out of the room. There was a faint fog hovering around the station, and I could see that all the other detectives were laying on their desk, or the floor, asleep.

"Why would Carlos be after your sister?" he asked.

"Not her." I shook my head. "She was adopted by the guy Rossi told you to kill when you were disguised as Tarsem!" Jean's mouth dropped open. It was the first time I'd seen him totally dumbfounded. He shook himself out of a daze, and put his hands on my shoulders.

"She'll be fine," he assured me. "They won't kill her, yet. They have no use for her dead. They're going to try and use her as bargaining chip, to get us to give back what we stole."

"Then give it back!" I shouted. Jean smiled pityingly. I never wished I could punch him more then I did at that moment.

"Look, Jigen, we're friends. I'm willing to do a lot for you," he said. "But as your friend, I'm telling you that, that is the one thing I will never do." That when I shocked him in jaw. Jean staggered backwards, caught off guard at my sudden attack.

"Jean," Yukiko cried, rushing to the the room. "The officers will wake soon. We—" she stopped when she spotted me. "Jigen, what—"

"I've got things under control here, baby," Jean replied, rubbing his jaw. "Go back to keeping watch." Yukiko obeyed, but not before casting me a suspicious look.

"That was good one," he chuckled, rubbing his jaw. "But it doesn't change anything. I already have plans. Rest assured, I won't let anything happen to her." He flashed a smirked. "You trust me, right?" I nodded, reluctantly.

"Good," he said. "As it happens I already visited the house. They totally ransacked the place, but no blood," he assured me. "They left a note." He handed me a slip of paper. Then, with a sly look of confidence, he strolled back into the room with the other prisoners.

He stood in the middle of the hallway, facing his audience. "Good news," he announced. "This is a jailbreak! Unfortunately, I can only take a handful of you, so who wants to volunteer?" Immediately, everyone's hand went up. Jean rubbed his hands together. "Recruitment is always the best part of the job." He glanced over all the men.

I expected him to pick all the youngest and most muscular looking ones, but his selection included a short and slender man, a graying man with a mustache, a blonde man in his earlier 20s, a curly haired woman, and a bald, slightly muscular man.

"From now on you will be known as A, B, C, D and E, and you will remain such till I can be bothered to learn your names," he declared. "So congratulations. You're now under the employment of Jean Lupin."


	11. One Last Shot

Jigen was understandably impatient about the affair, but I knew from experience it was best not to rush into these types of things. We drove back to the abandoned theater, and emptied out all the suitcases, save for one, before refilling them with paper. By the time we were finished, it was starting to get dark. The note had specified to meet right after sunset at our old hideout by the docks.

We borrowed a van from one of the neighbors and Jigen drove it down to the seaside, with Blackjack, Frankie and I riding in the back. Once we got within a couple of hundred yards from the warehouse, everyone got out except Jigen.

"We'll walk from here," I announced. "Deliver the suitcase, stall a little if you have to, and wait till _exactly_ eight before doing anything. Got it?" He nodded.

I watched as he drove off, and waited till he was several yards ahead before leading everyone else towards the warehouse. The enormous shipping crates and cranes helped keep us out of sight from any men Carlos had stand guard. Still, we were careful to keep alert. When arrived at the worn down shack, I pulled a pair of sunglasses from my pocket and slipped them on. In the already fading daylight they made it almost impossible to see.

"Any guards around?" I asked.

"I see one," Blackjack announced. "He's circling around... and there's another one. I'd guess 4 or 5 of them in total."

"Did you bring the chloroform?"

"Got it," Frankie pipped up, handing me a bottle and rag.

"Good." My eyes had already started to adjust and I could see another guard start to approach. The time between each wasn't long enough for us to go by undetected. I waved for Frankie go in the other direction before darting towards the warehouse, careful keep quiet and out of sight.

Peering from behind a freight container, Frankie signaled to me. I charged for the corner, holding up the rag just as one of that guards walked into it. Frankie ran out from behind the container and dragged the body out of sight. I whipped out my knife and cut open the power box.

"Cut the power in exactly 2 minutes," I instructed Blackjack. "If anyone else shows up, put them to sleep, or kill them. Just make sure they don't get the attention of anyone inside." I sliced down one of the windows and slipped into a small room which resembled an office.

The room was dimly lit, but there was a faint glow coming from the hallway. I shut the door behind me and walked past dozens of room with paint worn from disuse. As I continued down the hall, the lights grew stronger. When I entered the main room, I could hear the clicks of guns as a dozen fingers itched to pull the trigger.

"Before you shoot can I have a last request?" I heard Jigen say.

"What?" Carlos yapped.

"I just want to say goodbye." There wasn't reply, but I could hear the sound of Jigen's footsteps shuffling on the floor. I snuck quietly towards where all the voices were coming from and waiting behind a stack of boxes.

"Come on Blackjack!" I silently pleaded.

A few seconds after I had finished the thought, all the lights in the building shut down. Ignoring the men's cries of confusion, I tossed aside the sunglasses, my eyes perfectly adjusted to the darkness, before diving towards where Jigen. He was holding his sister in a hug as he pulled himself into a corner, avoiding Carlos's men's blind air jabs as they searched for them in the darkness. I charged towards them, feeling a hand from one of the men as he tried to snatch me by the shoulder as I sped past. I ran up to the siblings, grabbing them both at once before cutting a hole in the floor.

"Someone get a flashlight!" Carlos shouted.

We fell into the sewers, landing in the murky, filth infested waters. Wet, but otherwise unharmed I pushed Jigen and his sister out of the water. Yukiko who was waiting a few meters away with our police station escapees, ran up to us and propped a ladder in the water under the hole.

"Yuki, stay with the girl. Everyone else, get up there and shoot anything that moves," I ordered as I climbed back up into the warehouse.

Some of Carlos's men had run out, fearful of being shot in the dark. But as everyone else's eyes began to adjust, the scene inside the warehouse turned into a complete free for all. I came up behind the back of the man who'd try to grab me earlier, wrestling him to the ground before stabbing him in the chest.

After yanking the blade back out, I scanned the area for Carlos. No surprise, the man had already run off somewhere. I headed back to the hallway I'd come in from, Jigen following close behind. If he'd head out of the front, Blackjack would have stopped him.

We hadn't run far before I heard Carlos's footsteps ahead. Determined to catch him before he crawled out the window, I picked up the pace as I rounded the corner. Carlos wasn't more than a meter away. Realizing I'd caught him, he whirled around and fired a shot at me. I leapt out of the way and pulled out the knife, landing a quick jab which made him drop his weapon. Blood oozed out, staining the blade and dripping onto the floor.

Carlos let out a scream of pain, glaring at me, eyes fiery with rage. I felt a sudden jolt though my thigh which seared in pain as a felt a trickle of blood run down my leg. Carlos pulled back, yanking the blade at the tip of his shoe out of my flesh. My left leg collapsed under me. I pulled myself up and started crawling across the floor as Carlos climbed out the window, and disappeared. I roared his frustration and turned over onto my back as my wound started bleeding profusely.

I pressed my hand against it, trying to stop the bleeding, but I only succeeded in dyeing my hands red. Just then, Jigen rushed into the room, the Walther at his side.

"Forget me," I gasped. "Go get him!" He hesitated for less than a moment before running after Carlos. I struggled to get back onto my feet. I had to get back to Yukiko and the others before I bled to death.

"You shouldn't move," Jigen said. He was holding an wet rag in his hand. "I dug this up in the other room. It's clean... enough." I sighed as the water from the towel seeped into my wound, the coldness slowly the bleed.

"So he got away," I groaned.

"We killed most of his men," Jigen pointed out. "He'll have trouble retaliating without them."

"That's true, that's true." I nodded, slowly. I began to feel light-headed, as if I hadn't gotten enough sleep. The bleeding had almost stopped now, but I'd still lost a lot of blood.

"Do you know Emil Duncan?" Jigen asked, suddenly. I searched my memory for the name.

"Emil?" I repeated, nodding slowly. "Yeah. He worked for me a few months back. Or so I thought. Why do you ask?"

"Do you know what happened to him?" I chuckled, my head foggy and dazed.

"I shot him," I bragged. "Want to know why?"

"No," he muttered. "It doesn't really matter." I furrowed my brow.

"Of course it does," I cried. "You can't just go shooting people for no reason. For example, I wanted to shoot Rossi, because he was a wrinkled old scumbag, and because he sent his drunkard lackey, Emil to spy for him. Worked for me for two weeks, before I decided to have Blackjack tail him." I grunted, forcing myself up, and reopening the wound.

"Come on," I said. "Let's get outta here. If I'm going to die, I'd prefer it to be somewhere a little cleaner."

**...**

Jean leaned heavily against my shoulder as he stumbled back into the main room of the warehouse. We quickened out pace as we heard the sound of sirens approaching from the distance. I spotted Yukiko holding a flashlight up to us as we walked up to the hole Jean had cut in the floor.

As soon as Yukiko saw us, she pulled herself out of the hole and ran up to Jean, taking his other arm and helping me lower him into the sewers. Once we reached the hole, Yukiko stepped down first, holding the ladder still as Jean hopped down the rungs.

"Get Jean to Dr. Bennett, quick," Yukiko ordered. Blackjack gave a swift nod as Frankie went to start the van. Once Jean had gotten down, I prepared to follow, only to be stopped by the click of a gun trained at my chest.

"Don't. Move," Detective Johnson commanded. She narrowed her eyes as an expression of betray curled her brows. "He was the one who gave you the Walther wasn't he?" she said. "Do you have any idea who he is? His past?"

"I know enough."

"He's the one who killed your father," she reminded me.

"I know," I murmured. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Yukiko's look of surprise. "But that doesn't matter to me. It never did. Because I finally found someone I can count on." Before she could react, I pushed myself off the edge of the hole and plummeted down into the sewer.

Satisfied at my escape, I smiled as I pulled myself out of the water. My smiled quickly faded when I'd surfaced. Nichole had run up to the ladder, and was climbing up it, towards Rachel's open arms.

"Nichole?" I called out. She stopped, turning back to stare at me for a long moment, her emotionless gaze hurting me more than any bullet or knife wound. Yukiko turned to me, as if asking whether I wanted her to intervene. I shook my head.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled quietly before we fled out of the sewers.


	12. Epilogue

It's been a year since Carlos disappeared. And a year since I last saw Nichole. Rachel had adopted her, after Mr. Carter's connections with Rossi were uncovered. The papers were vague, but the official word was embezzlement. Sometimes I would still think of her. I missed her of course, but knowing she would be safe with the detective was a comfort. Besides, I had my own life now. When you find someone you can count on, it's like having an extra round of bullets. A Godsend, one last opportunity you'd have to be an idiot to waste.

Jean had opened up several restaurants across the borough, and the money was flowing in steadily. Jean was decent, as bosses went. He had made me his personal bodyguard, so my days were usually pretty slow. I would generally loiter around the bar or outside his office until he sent someone for me.

Our little gang had expanded in the last year. With Carlos gone, the remainder of his men joined sided with Jean, and the rest went over to Marcel. The theater was renovated for the occasion. It was now a posh little jazz club, that made a killing during the city's cold winters.

I lit a cigarette was the band finished another number. Yukiko step up onto the stage and grabbed the microphone. It had been a while since I'd heard her sing. She had Jean always worked side by side, making sure the businesses stayed prosperous. She smiled when she saw me, and I waved back, stretching myself across the couch as I watched her perform. As she began, the men sitting by the stage cheered.

One remained silent. A new guy, who'd joined the gang only a couple of weeks ago. Older than I was, as most of them were. He had been staring at me for several minutes and finally stood up as Yukiko started her song. The others at the table tried to hold him back. They'd been in the gang maybe a few months longer than he had. He should've listened to them. But he didn't.

He marched up to me and slammed the palm of his hand down on one of the couch's arms. "Who do you think you are?" he barked. "I've been watching you. You lay there all day doing nothing and get paid three times as much we do busting our asses all day!" I blinked. Once in a while the newcomers would get rowdy, but I'd quickly learned to speak their language.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the Walther, pointing the barrel at his nose. "Should I take your job then?" I murmured. The man quickly shook his head, nervous sweat dripping from his brow.

"Then do me a favor and fuck off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! I hope you enjoyed it. I realize this wasn't the best story, but I wrote most of it more than a year ago and it was big struggle to think of some suitable conclusion. I'm pretty proud to finally be able to conclude it. One day, when I get a lot better maybe I'll start again from scratch with this, but for none I'm moving on to backstories for the rest of the gang, starting with Zenigata!


End file.
